AN: This is for you all, you fed the writer so well, that the writer felt guilty leaving you hanging, so the writer wrote part four and found out to her surprise that there will be five parts (not four), but the writer didn't leave you hanging so much this time! So, your diligence is muchly rewarded for your time and I hope you enjoy this part! (and now I'll quit the creepy third personal referrals) Thanks also to my beta who returned from incommunicado land thanks to storm damage, thanks Gaffer, you're the best and were missed muchly!

IV.

Ronon set Sheppard on the floor of the jumper with far more gentleness than his size belied, while Teyla barked orders at the stunned soldier.

McKay heard the words; take off, dial – radio Atlantis.

"Call -" Rodney fumbled to speak through numb lips, "Someone tell them to call Carson."

"I have already done so," Teyla said softly, next to him, and McKay wondered when she'd gotten so close.

Rodney stared transfixed at the arrow protruding from Sheppard's chest, a grotesque talisman of the gigantic disaster of the mission with the Kenai people. How had this happened? When they'd left Atlantis, it'd seemed simple enough. Even, dare he say it, boring – but the events of the day, not even twenty-four hours, were anything but boring, and the repercussions – oh, god, what if Sheppard didn't make it? McKay's eyes were glued to John's chest. It was moving, slightly, just enough that he could see that Sheppard was breathing.

"Hang on, Colonel, just keep breathing," McKay found himself uttering. Then, "Where the hell is Carson?" he shouted towards the cockpit. He hadn't heard the doctor come over the radio. What if he should take out the arrow? What if there was something he was supposed to be doing that could save Sheppard, and he wasn't doing it because he didn't know?

A firm hand on his shoulder, and he looked up into Ronon's deep brown eyes. "He won't die."

Rodney wanted to believe that, but wasn't Sheppard's chest rising less often, not as high, his breathing growing erratic, slower – "It's bad," was all he could say in return.

"The colonel has survived worse," said Teyla, and both of them flashed back to a similar scene in the jumper, but there was no arrow back then, instead a large black bug intent on sucking as much life out of Sheppard as it could.

"Rodney, is the arrow still embedded firmly in the colonel's chest?" crackled Beckett's voice in his ear.

McKay almost sobbed with relief. "Yes, damnit, Carson, he's bleeding everywhere!"

There was a sucked in breath, and he could imagine the intensity rising in the gateroom. "Aye, I know," soothed Beckett. "Rodney, listen, whatever you do, do not remove the arrow – it's probably the only thing keeping Sheppard alive."

"What the fuck do you mean?" snapped McKay. "We can't leave the arrow in his chest! He can't breathe, Carson – it's – it's damaged his lung I think."

"I know," retorted Beckett, an edge appearing in his voice. "But if you remove it, it'll be like pulling the cork on a barrel of wine; he'll bleed to death before I can get anywhere near him."

Right. Bleed to death. Son of a bitch, he was bleeding to death anyway, and what the hell good did it do if he died from lack of oxygen before they got back?

Rodney closed his eyes, searching desperately for a buoy to anchor on, but he was on his own, being tossed on the frightening sea. He opened them again, drawn back to the gory wound, and resumed his vigil over watching John's chest rise and fall, rise and fall, but it wasn't rising. Fuck! Sheppard wasn't breathing – "Teyla, he's not breathing!" panicked, Rodney pulled on Sheppard's vest.

Teyla rushed to Sheppard's other side, and tilted the colonel's head back, breathing in two rapid breaths. McKay fumbled with Sheppard's wrist, and was relieved at the pulse, no matter how thready it was, at least it was there.

John coughed, and struggled into consciousness, after Teyla had repeated the rescue breathing three times over; red blood welled in the corner of his mouth, staining his teeth, and making Rodney want to gag from the sight of it. From the traumatic injury, and the emotional impact that the arrow was having on him. Come on, one last breath – urged McKay to himself, just keep taking –

One last breath…this was not how it was supposed to happen, damn itSheppard, breathe – Rodney listened for the rasp of an inhalation, held his face steady as stone over Sheppard's mouth, waiting – begging – for that soft waft of air that would tell him he'd taken another breath.

"I'm still –" Sheppard gurgled over the seeping blood, weeping out his mouth, and down his chin, "-here."

McKay's eyes burned. He knew his friend was in pain, so much damn pain, the arrow sticking straight through his chest ensured that, and he couldn't do a thing for him.

Carson had made him swear to leave the arrow alone.

"You're doing fine, Colonel," said McKay, forcing his words to stay calm, something to stay calm, because god knows, he wasn't calm at all.

"Mc-Kay." Sheppard's hand reached for Rodney's jacket, finding it, and latched on with the strength of a dying man. "Not," Sheppard wheezed, fighting for air, "your fault."

The panic down deep that McKay had tried to force into nothingness, had tried to force into that black hole where he had to keep those emotions, because they were so fucking crippling when something like this happened, wouldn't stay contained. The gravitational pull that was Sheppard was greater, and Rodney frantically sought Sheppard's hand, tacky with drying blood, and held it, not sure if it was a lifeline for John, or for himself.

"Don't," he whispered, cracking despite himself and all his vows. "Don't you fucking give up, Colonel, you hear me! You are not leaving me to explain this to Elizabeth, or Caldwell, or anyone else, you hear!" He was practically shouting now. "You take that last breath, and then you do it again, and you keep taking every damn last breath until I get you back to Carson-"

The frothy chuckle from Sheppard sent chills through McKay's veins. "It's" breathe "not" breathe "a" breathe "last" breathe "breath" breathe "if –"

McKay waited – but Sheppard didn't finish, and Sheppard wasn't breathing anymore.

"No, no no no, Sheppard, don't –"

"Doctor McKay, what is the status of Colonel Sheppard?"

Beckett. Atlantis. The rear of the jumper was falling open, and he could see the medical team running towards him. They'd made it? Time slows, events freeze, and blood thickens –

"Save him," croaked Rodney, still holding Sheppard's hand. The dried blood had sealed their skin together, blood brothers, like the game kids play, but this hadn't been a game –

OoO

Someone had removed his hand from Sheppard's, right after the medical team had converged, and they'd begun throwing out medical jargon that went over Rodney's head, while stripping the colonel's clothes, and loading him on a gurney.

He'd never noticed how it was a dance, carefully orchestrated, and idly wondered how it'd looked when it'd been him on the stretcher in the past. Had Sheppard stood watching, with that hollow spot in his stomach, and wondered if he'd ever talk to him again?

"Rodney?"

McKay turned towards the voice, reflex more than acknowledgement. "Elizabeth," he said, just because that's what was expected from him, not because he had anything to say.

He saw her eyes search his face, saw her take in his state of shock, and watched as her worried gaze slid into gentle concern. She reached for his elbow, "You should get cleaned up."

He could feel his head already shaking no. He didn't want to get cleaned up. "Sheppard," he said instead. "I need to go check on Sheppard."

"He is hurt." The rumble of Ronon interrupted them.

McKay watched as her eyes narrowed down and she began assessing his physical state, and not so much his emotional, but she was looking in the wrong place. The damage outside was superficial; the damage inside – if Sheppard died, he didn't want to think about how deep that damage would be.

Somewhere along the way the friendship had deepened to a level where the thought of being here without him caused physical pain. No one understood him like Sheppard; no one listened to him, and had the ability to tell him to go fuck himself without making it personal.

He shrugged his shoulder, trying to loosen her hold, but that caused the barely formed clot over the trench created by the arrow graze to break free, and the blood seeped from the wound; shit, even his body cried for the injustice of it all.

"It's nothing," he protested anyway.

"Doctor Weir, we will see that he goes to the infirmary." Teyla looked at him firmly, and she nodded knowingly at Ronon.

Strong-armed. Fuck it. He wanted to go the infirmary anyway, right, he wasn't going to run off to his room and hide from what might be. He'd walk through those glass doors and face Beckett, and the news that might hurt him a lot more than anything else could or had. He wasn't a coward –

Ha! Who was he kidding, he sure as hell was. But looking at Elizabeth, already inclining her heard towards Teyla, he knew he was screwed.

God, just don't be dead, he begged to the ache in his chest, just don't be dead –

When he did walk through those doors, Ronon on his left and Teyla to his right, he didn't see Beckett – or Sheppard. And he felt his breathing quicken.

"He is in surgery," murmured Teyla.

Right, that's it. Not dead. He's not dead. Maybe if he said it often enough, it'd be true?

He'd feel a lot better about it, if John hadn't stopped breathing, again, while he watched.

McKay let himself be led to a bed, and he was aware of Teyla going in search of a doctor, while Ronon folded his arms, and regarded him evenly. "You don't have to watch me like a German Shepherd, Jesus, I won't try to leave."

"Yes, you would."

Christ. This new guy was more trouble than he was worth. "Yeah, well, maybe I would," he said daringly. "And you think you could stop me?"

Ronon didn't even blink. "Yes."

If he wasn't so worried about Sheppard, he'd be outraged – "Just sit, stay, whatever, you're making me nervous hovering like that."

He knew the saying, saved by the bell, but this time it was saved by the doc, because Ronon had looked a little insulted by the sit-stay comment, and his eyes had sparked dangerously, when Teyla had appeared, a doctor in tow.

The doctor was Beckett.

Suddenly, McKay's heart seized, and he squeaked, "Carson?"

One day, after this was all a bad nightmare, he'd have to ask Carson why he knew exactly what that one word meant – how he knew what Rodney had asked by the mere act of calling his name, but for now, he waited anxiously while the storm clouded face smiled tiredly.

"He's going to be okay."

Okay? "You mean, he's alive?"

"Yes, I mean he's alive," said Beckett. He studied McKay's arm, and frowned, moving to pull away the material. "And you, why didn't you tell anyone you were hurt?"

Rodney was grinning like he'd just won the Nobel Prize. He grabbed Carson's shoulders, "He's going to be okay!"

"Aye," repeated Beckett, staring harder at McKay. "Your arm, Rodney."

"Huh, that?" Rodney asked absently, still riding the elation of the fear coming to a crashing halt. "That's nothing – when can I see him?"

"He's being stitched up now, but he's still out of it – Rodney, he won't be aware of much for a while, plenty long enough to treat your injury." Beckett extracted himself from McKay's giddy hold, and pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, glancing over at Teyla and Ronon. "You two can get cleaned up before your post mission exam, unless there's any other injuries I should know about?" he asked a bit sharply, tossing a pointed look at McKay.

"I'm fine," assured Ronon, already backing up.

Teyla was smiling, partly because of Ronon's reaction and partly because of the news on Sheppard. "I am also unhurt."

"Good," said Carson, looking relieved. "Go, but don't take long," he reminded sternly.

McKay watched his guard dogs leave, and allowed himself to be guided into a half upright position on the infirmary bed, once Beckett adjusted the head portion of the gurney.

"Carson, remind me to take a vacation when I try to go on another mission," he mumbled. The emotional toll had taken its due, and he was left feeling washed out, and exhausted.

A snort was the only answer, but he felt a sharp prick of a needle on his hand. He looked down to see an IV needle being inserted. Before he could ask why, it was taped down, and another injection was being inserted in the port.

"Just something to relax you while we stitch this up, Rodney," assured Beckett.

Stitch? "I need stitches?" Was that panic now rising again?

Carson patted his shoulder, above and to the side of the cut. "Aye, but just a wee bit, and I promise, you won't feel a thing."

And already, Rodney's eyes were drifting shut, and he let go –